Here Without You
by emziiz
Summary: The only way to survive Azkaban is to escape. With Voldermort's demise and all Death Eaters either rotting with him or dead, the only way to escape is to dream. But if you knew you were guaranteed to see the one person you love, to see the one person you could never see again, is it still worth it? Short chapters and flashbacks into the past.


**Summary: **_**The only way to survive Azkaban is to escape. With Voldermort's demise and all Death Eaters either rotting with him or dead, the only way to escape is to dream. But if you knew you were guaranteed to see the one person you love, to see the one person you could never see again, is it still worth it? Short chapters and flashbacks into the past. **_

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: Character Death and short chapters (some people don't like them, so may as well chuck that in the warnings too)**

**Notes: Based off the song Here Without You by 3 Doors Down.**

**Disclaimer: If I were J.K. Rowling, I think I could afford a better computer than what I've got now. Also, I could afford to go overseas. The plot is the only thing that is mine.**

The cake he had half expected was not there when he woke up. On the morning of his one hundredth day in Azkaban, he woke up to the same bleakness that had greeted him for the past ninety-nine days. Cracked walls, bare floors and not a personal memento in sight. Not like they would let you have anything in the godforsaken place anyway, but it was nice to dream.

Oh, how nice it was to dream.

The only part of his past that he could face, the only part that made it all worth it, was always there to greet him in his dreams. Long red curls that moved like a calm waterfall whenever she moved her freckled neck slightly. The soft baby face that had morphed into bold, grim lines during the war. Slightly parted lips that made her face transform into the peaceful girl she was back in school. Eyes that sparkled like a gem in sunshine.

Too bad he could never look into her eyes again.

Not that he didn't believe. Every day of living in filth with the rest of the captured Death Eaters drove his heart mad with want. Every time he woke up from heaven and realised he was still in hell made him want to slam his fist against the cold brick that lined his windowless cell.

He had been living his life inside a dream for nearly a year now, feeling as if he could only awaken when he was asleep. Captured the day after Voldermort's demise because of his foolish instinct to check on her, to make sure she had made it out alive, he had been awaiting trial until Christmas, forced to wait for the more serious Death Eaters to be put on trial first. Such an example was his father. After being convicted of supporting and acting on behalf of You-Know-Who's orders without the Imperious being cast (obviously) and accused of murdering his wife before the Final Battle had even begun (not as obvious to most, yet was still charged), he had been transported to the underground cells in Azkaban for life.

He was nearly sent to the underground cells himself, but Precious Potter had argued against the decision himself at his trial, saying "He's already had it hard enough; being the son of one of the most loyal Death Eaters; may as well let him have some sort of freedom."

Freedom. What did Harry bloody Potter know about freedom? It didn't matter where the bloody hell they placed him, he wasn't going to have freedom for another thirty years! Even after his release, he'll still be frowned upon in society. Things will never go back to normal, not for him anyway.

Not that he expected them to. His life would never be normal, never be complete without her. If things went back to normal, there would be no more of the butterfly kisses to wake him up every morning. No more rushed snogging sessions in dark alcoves just to make sure he wouldn't forget about her. Not that he ever would.

Finally getting out of 'bed', he moved himself closer to the barred door of his cell. Charms had been placed on all the doors to make sure the prisoners would stay away and stop begging for more food. Sometimes it was a cooling charm, making it so cold near the entrance of one's cell they would have no choice but to move into a corner as far away from the door as possible to not freeze to death. Other days it was just a basic nausea charm, causing a pile of vomit to gather in the corner of one's room, gathering flies, rats and other disgusting vermin to congregate to the feast that would never be cleaned.

Today was a more complex charm. Even before he had made it halfway to the bars he could tell what it was. Bewitched Sleeping. Knowing food would not come for another five or so hours, he joined in with the rest of the prisoners, grabbing his flimsy blankets and setting up camp in front of his egress, praying for oblivion.


End file.
